Their War
by MusicMixerGURL
Summary: Would you kill your half-brother if he's the prince of the country you hate? AU. Yaoi.


** Disclaimer: Don't owe Hetalia. :)**

**USUK**

**Rated M**

0.

"Bloody heavy _Yankee._"

He _couldn't_ die on english territory. Wouldn't.

Heavy eyelids forced themselves open with an exhausted sigh, blinking against the light. He hacked a cough out, and dirty fingers clenched and unclenched weakly.

The American soldier felt the dried blood and the dirt from the last few weeks stick to his eyelashes, which made it difficult to open them, but with a bit of willpower the lashes were forced ajar, letting in the faint morning light. The world swayed as in a daze and the owner of the blue eyes tried to figure himself out.

A small distance to his right there was an opening that he must have squeezed himself through to get in here. He could see the sun shine in a ray into the small cave and the dust danced in the faint light, shining on his worn boots and forest uniform. His "cave" was mostly a muddy crater in the ground, that a tree was nicely branching out over, as a skirt of leafs.

"Ah... fuck..." he bit out as he tried to sit up.

His leg had been cut and blood was drenching his right leg in crimson. He forced himself to sit upright, a tight pain shooting through his ribcage. He must have broken some ribs. But he would rather die of pain than of a slow blood-loss, so he got himself in a sitting position against the dirt, whimpered just a little.

He fumbled his shoe off with shaking fingers, biting the inside of his cheek harshly to keep from screaming. He didn't know how far away the enemy was after all. He had passed out, but he didn't know how long that is.

His foot was swollen and pounding with agony and protest of the harsh treatment, but he ignored it and instead got the laces out of the shoes. They were made of the same material as they used for parachutes, so it should be strong.

Shaking hands lifted his pants from the wound, the cloth sticking to the injury a little and the soldier _almost_ let out a sob when he saw the damage, but hurried to shake it off. No time to be a wimp, he had to act fast. He was on enemy territory. And worst of all, he was _alone_. He didn't have a teammate to help him. He had to be his own hero.

The bone was sticking out a little bit, and black spots danced before his eyes when he saw it. He knew that he had to fix it on his own. He had never done such a thing, but he had seen it done once. A tough German soldier that had been on his team had done it with only a small wince. He could too.

He was American after all. Tough. Brave.

A hero.

He swung his bag off of his back and put one of the straps in his mouth so he wouldn't bite his tongue or make a sound when he... when he... when he corrected his leg.

_One_… He grabbed around the leg… _two_… he took a deep breath through his nose, his fingers tensing… _three_!

"GAAH!" he screamed, muffled by the strap and tears filled his eyes, as he fell sideways onto the cold stone floor. He felt his eyes darken for just a second by the indescribable pain that filled his whole being. His hands was filled with blood, and shook in cramps.

His breathings were hard and quick, wide eyes staring blindly ahead. He sobbed and his fingers dug into the cloth of his pants as he tried to get over the shock of all that pain.

After a few beats of time he got himself together somewhat. He cradled his hand around a rock behind him for support, and got back in a sitting position with a sniffle.

The job wasn't done, he still had to escape, but the feeling of having achieved something gave him strength to keep going. He grabbed his shoelaces and got them tightly around his leg to stop infection from traveling through his system. It was hard, since his hands were slick with blood and shaking of the ache from earlier.

The soldier grabbed his bag and rummaged through it. It was almost empty, and unfortunately contained no more energy-bars or jello. No more food. No more medicine. Why did he have to get away from his team on one of his last days in the field where all his rations were used?

At least he had a few drops of water left in his bottle, but most importantly there were some bandages in a back-pocket. He grinned foolishly as he pulled it up and hastily pulled it around his leg, soiling it with blood immediately. Round and round. He had no idea how to do it properly, but he did get the job done quickly.

A feeling of control filled him when the blood seemed to flow back in his leg and he smiled wider. Stupidly. He knew that it was an idiotic thing to smile about, since he was clearly screwed in more ways than one, but the happiness of living at least a while longer filled him like fuel.

The young American soldier, Alfred Jones, slowly crawled toward the exit of his small hiding place and looked out with alerted eyes. When the coast seemed clear he scrambled out fully, feeling the light drops of water make pearls in his dirty-blonde hair that looked dull and almost brown from dirty. He was only 19, but he had been in the military for a year, officially. But his father had been training him to be a soldier since he was a kid.

He had been in enemy territory for a week or two, but he had already been separated from his team when British red-coats shot him in the leg, and his radio was mercilessly shattered against a rock when he fell. He remembered how he had fumbled the pieces out of the mud, shaking hands trying to fit them back together, but to no avail. In the end he had had to run.

His teammates had been forced to retreat – if they weren't killed under the attack. He didn't know. Those damn British soldiers had seen through their plans of sneaking in through the woods instead of the roads and gotten them unprepared from the tree's. They had looked exactly like wild monkeys as they descended from the braches and shot on every American soldier in sight.

Alfred staggered out in the wilderness. He groaned as he straightened his back, his ribcage screaming in pain, but he kept walking.

But soon the sun seemed to bounce around and the trees started to sway. And since he had lost his glasses at some point, the world was already blurry enough. He cursed quietly before his body collapsed under him, and the sense of control disappeared. He felt totally exposed out in the open woods. It probably wouldn't take long for the enemy to find him.

... damn.

He didn't remember blacking out, but suddenly he opened his eyes again. Half-lidded and tired. He couldn't feel his legs, but he managed to lift his head a little. The rain padding lightly onto his cheek. His body was probably soaked, but he couldn't feel it. He was just… cold.

In the distance he heard boots. That most have been what woke him.

They were already this close. How long did he sleep? It was dark now. Well, no matter. At least he wouldn't have to lie here all day and bleed out. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again a figure was leaning over him. Had he blacked out _again_?

The moon behind his head darkened the strangers face, and his bad sight didn't help, but it was definitely a male. Alfred could make out the pointy hair and straightened back. He didn't seem much older than himself. His eyes squinted a little in confusion by the silhouette. Why did it seem familiar?

Alfred was surprised he even got time to notice these things, why hadn't he been killed yet? Were they really going to torture him first? As if he would speak. They could do their best. He stared emptily up at the person.

"Who is he … ed … American… Leav- him, Arthur… scolded…" Alfred was so close to unconsciousness that he could only make out a few words, maybe he had damaged his hearing doing the fight, at least his brain seemed to make blank spaces. Even though they seemed to speak English. _They_… there were two. Two of them, and both of them seemed to speak in the unmistakable British accents. But the second person was out of his line of sight.

The one shadowing him looked back at the other, "…my decisi… your place… -viously hurt… know, help me carrying him."

To his surprise the Englishman soon grabbed his arm and mumbled something about him being heavy. He was confused, but at the same time he really didn't care at this point. He whimpered when he was moved, and almost tripped the shorter boy when he curled together in pain.

"Bloody hell! _Yankee_!" those words he heard clearly. Tears welled up in his eyes, because this person reminded him of someone so much. But there was no way, right? He really wished he could see.

Alfred had no choice but lean his weight on the seemingly shorter boy, who scrambled around to find balance. Loud protest was heard from his British companion that Alfred could now see from the short one's slender back – how pitiful and ironic that an Englishman would be his rescuer. He was muddy, wet, bloody and saved by a brit. How low can you possibly go?

The companion was dressed in a British uniform, and if Alfred wasn't mistaking it seemed to be… from the royal guard. That's when dark spots started to form before his eyes.

"Bloody heavy _Yankee_."

Alfred's brain seemed to work with the last bit of his energy, and this time he was sure. The voice, tainted by a British accent, and the slender back that had carried him so many times before. His fingers curled into the fabric of the others jacket, and the British man seemed to hold his breath. "…Arthur…," he whispered, letting his head drop onto his shoulder with a raspy sigh, still fisting his hand in the cloth of his jacket.

The other froze. Alfred gritted his teeth, he didn't want the other to answer, but soon he heard a faint. "Yes."

"I... _hate_ you," Alfred hissed out breathlessly.

There was a moment of silence, and Alfred felt himself slipping more into the abyss of unconsciousness. Then the other started walking again. "I know… I know you do…" came the quiet answer, before the darkness consumed him again and send him into a dreamless state of black.

* * *

**This was the prologue / taste of the future. If you're interested in seeing more of this, please leave a review, it motivates me so much. Thank you. :)**


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